


That-Vicious-Vixen's Valentine's Drabble Fest

by thatviciousvixen



Category: Hannibal (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pacific Rim (2013), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, References to Drugs, multi-fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatviciousvixen/pseuds/thatviciousvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So on tumblr I asked my buds to give me some of their favorite pairings, and I've been writing Valentine's based drabbles based off of them. Multi-fandom, multi-rating, just a bunch of schmoopy fluff even when it's dark.</p><p>1. Hannibal Lecter/Frederick Chilton. PG-13 for referenced sex and canon-typical violence.<br/>2. Frederick Chilton/Will Graham. NC-17 for a whole mess of schmoopy sex.<br/>3. Bard/Thranduil. G for fluff and bardlings.<br/>4. Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger. G for sappy romance.<br/>5. Kaidanovskys! Rated G for sweet Russian fluff.<br/>6. John Watson/Sherlock Holmes. Rated NC-17. Also rated "this is not a fucking drabble Alley holy crow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frederick Chilton/Hannibal Lecter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble 1: Hannibal Lecter/Frederick Chilton, requested by my [darling Casey Beth](http://www.prittleprince.tumblr.com). PG-13 for mentions of sex, cannibalism, and canon-typical violence.
> 
> It's about protection, until it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me [at my tumblr](http://www.that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

It would be a mistake for anyone to assume that Frederick Chilton does not know his lover inside and out. He may be a flawed and egotistical man, but he is no fool. He sees the way Hannibal categorizes and memorizes every aspect of the people around him. He is completely aware of the way he manipulates his inner circle to his liking. He knows that sometimes his wine glass holds things other than wine, things meant to chase off his usual nightmares of being sliced open and pulled apart and keep him sleeping through the night so Hannibal can slip out unnoticed.

He doesn’t mind it, and he certainly doesn’t ask questions. At first it’s a question of protection. If you fear wolves, what safer place than as part of the pack? He’s sure Hannibal isn’t courting him out of actual love or affection. It’s control. Control over his actions. Control over his hospital. Control over Will Graham. It’s all well and good, Frederick never really believed in love anyway.

Anyway, there are plenty of comforts to be enjoyed when Hannibal Lecter is your lover. The food, for one, is phenomenal. Hannibal spares no expense and doesn’t let Frederick’s dietary restrictions hinder him. There are beautiful salads, heavy and satisfying pastas, these incredible beet-root dumplings that Frederick could eat every day for the rest of his life... and so what if sometimes the dressing tastes a bit too tangy, like copper on his tongue? He never chose to be a vegetarian, it was forced on him in the end. And really, he’s seen the very worst of humanity on a daily basis. He’s not going to be the first to defend the worst of the worst from superior humans.

The status that comes with it is lovely. They attend operas, huge elaborate galas thrown by the best that Baltimore has to offer. His respect within the community increases - after all, Hannibal Lecter wouldn't choose just anyone as his partner.

And the sex. Jesus. Hannibal makes love like he prepares a meal. It’s sumptuous; elegant and elaborate and absolute artistry. He savors every touch and every taste as if he’s devouring Frederick (which he chooses not to dwell on too much). It doesn’t hurt that he’s the pinnacle of fitness and beauty. When Hannibal is over him, pressing him into the mattress and taking him apart, it’s like looking up at some strange foreign god of pleasure and pain. So he just hangs on, worshiping as best he can.

It’s after one particularly erotic night that Hannibal turns on his side, trying to make out Frederick’s face in the darkness. He draws his fingers along Frederick’s skin, flushed and slicked with sweat. Clever fingers dip into a pale pink scar, trailing off to stroke over a hip.

“If I ever had to relocate, for whatever reason... would you consider coming with me?” Hannibal asks, voice cutting through the darkness like a scalpel. It is sharp and vivid, slicing a neat line right to Frederick's heart.

And there it is. In that moment Frederick realizes that it’s no longer about status, or protection, or even the sex or food. It’s become something deeper that catches both of them by surprise. When neither was looking the nature of their game has shifted, and they suddenly find themselves on the same team instead of opposing sides of the board.

Frederick is silent for a moment before he responds. “Without a single question as to why.”

Hannibal pulls him close and their passion is rekindled.

It’s a fairly ordinary day in their life, a Sunday of no particular note or excitement, that the playing field is tipped entirely. Frederick is going through some take-home work, half focused on preparing a light dinner for them to enjoy. Hannibal is downstairs doing...something. There are questions that Frederick doesn’t ask and they are both happier for it.

There is a loud shriek and a bang, causing his eyes to widen and his head to jerk to the side. The door leading to the cellar has flown open and a man wearing nothing but a hearty amount of blood and a panicked expression is running towards him. In an instant Hannibal is standing in the doorway, for once looking disheveled as his eyes land on Frederick. Waiting.

Time slows down. He has known for quite some time, but it’s something they’ve committed to not speaking of. Some bubbles ought to remain unburst. He can no longer pretend, though. He can no longer play the unwitting lover to protect himself on all sides.

There are times where allegiances are tested, and times where actions say more of love then words ever can.

With a swift movement he picks up his cane, thrusting it out as the naked man runs past. It tangles in his legs, jerking out of Frederick’s hands and bringing the man crashing to the ground. His head knocks against the marble floor, knocking him unconscious. In the same movement Frederick loses his balances, his bad leg buckling underneath him and bringing him crashing to the ground.

There is silence; a long stretch of silence as Frederick and Hannibal lock eyes. Everything hinges on this moment. He either shows his allegiance or becomes the next meal.

“Now darling,” he says after a moment, raising an eyebrow. “You know better than to play with your food.”

Hannibal smiles, and it is louder than any “I love you,” ever spoken.


	2. Will Graham/Frederick Chilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham/Frederick Chilton requested by the wonderful [allegralovelace](http://allegralovelace.tumblr.com). This is just a bunch of smutty love, and inspired by one of those "imagine your otp doing xyz" posts on tumblr. NC-17 for sweet sweet love makin'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me [at my tumblr](http://www.that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

It’s been a long time since either of them have celebrated Valentine’s Day. There’s a point where you just feel too old for it; too old for cheap boxes of sub-bar chocolate, far too old for cheesy cards that don’t really capture the true sentiment or love you feel. Where is the card that says, “I’m comfortable with you, and that’s everything?” They all seem to overstate the unimportant bits about relationships and love. Sure, the sex is great, that fiery passion you feel in the early stages is intense, but if those things fade what’s left?

To Will, what’s left is all the really good bits. The knowledge that he doesn’t have to put on a show for Frederick, jump through any silly hoops to impress him. The quiet moments where they’re reading together on the couch, the ease with which they move together around the kitchen as they prepare dinner and clean up after. Casual touches, fond glances as they do mundane, every-day things around the house like tending to the dogs or sorting out their taxes. Those are the best parts.

So this year instead of planning some silly adventure neither will enjoy they’ve had a fairly low-key Valentine’s. Frederick woke up to make Will an incredible batch of waffles in the morning, and some time after dinner Will rubbed Frederick’s aching feet - the right way, with lotion and everything. Now they’re cuddled up in bed, enjoying casual touches and kisses as they drift lazily towards sleep.

“Should we have sex?” Frederick murmurs sleepily, eyelids heavy. “It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”

Will chuckles, smoothing his thumb along Frederick’s jaw. “Valentine was also the patron saint of bees, but you don’t see me rushing to open an apiary today. Go to sleep, you had a busy day.”

Frederick nods, kissing Will once more before turning over. He wriggles until his back is nestled to Will’s front, reaching back to pull a hand over his hip. Soon enough he is out cold, his gentle snores filling the silence as Will follows soon after.

*

Will wakes up to warm lips on his neck and a firm palm sliding along his stomach. He shivers into wakefulness, shutting his eyes tight. “Hnngh…what time is it?” he rasps, body turning subconsciously into the touches. He’s ultra-aware of his body, despite the fog of sleep clinging to him.

“Time for you to be awake,” Frederick coos into his neck. He slides his hand into Will’s boxers, grasping his half-hard cock and sliding his fingertips teasingly over the head. It’s light, a tickling little sensation that tenses his thighs and shoots right through him. The perfect sort of touch for early morning hand-jobs.

“I’m awake, trust me,” Will breathes, voice gravelly from sleep. He spreads his thighs a bit, settling onto his back. “What’s got you all worked up?”

Frederick smirks, swinging a thigh over Will’s hip to straddle him. “You were talking in your sleep. Well, not really talking, more like sighing in your sleep. It sounded quite erotic, I’ll have you know.” Leaning in, he starts a trail of kisses across Will’s chest. “How dare you sound so incredibly sexy this early in the morning.”

“I know, I’m the worst,” Will chuckles, sliding his palms up and down Frederick’s bare sides. Reaching up to cup the back of Frederick’s neck, he pulls him up for a firm kiss. When he was younger he would have been so concerned over morning breath, mortified by so many normal little things that people obsess over early in relationships. Now he is far too eager to get his lips on his partner, to kiss the breath out of him and start the morning off right.

Frederick’s lips are soft. It never ceases to amaze him at just how smooth and ripe they are, how quickly they react to stimulation by flushing pink and swelling ever so slightly. His skin is already red with arousal and warm to the touch as Will strokes down along his back to cup his perfect ass. He’s dying to be inside of him. His cock is pressed against Frederick’s thigh, aching as they kiss. He nibbles at a swollen bottom lip, flipping them over.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Frederick tuts, digging his feet into the mattress and pushing to return them to their former position. “I’m not quite done enjoying you.”

Will grins, rolling them once more. “Mm, I think you are. I’m ready to enjoy you now.”

“All in good time,” Frederick snorts, pushing Will back down onto the bed.

It becomes a wrestling match of sorts, their bodies rolling and twisting along the bed as both of them fight for dominance. Frederick is more solid, using his weight to his advantage, but Will has the benefit of being a trained fighter. He’s used to being in difficult situations that require his physicality. Every time Frederick has him pinned he wriggles and bucks, soon regaining the upper hand.

It’s ridiculous, and fun, and incredibly hot. They can’t stop laughing between their moans, cocks rubbing against each other as they roll around. Soon they’re worked up to a pretty decent frenzy. Will takes his chance, giving one more firm push in an attempt to pin his lover.

Unfortunately he miscalculates. What’s meant to simply change their position puts them on the floor, a sprawl of limbs and heaving chests. They look at each other for a moment, eyes wide.

They spring on each other like wild animals.

This time when Will pins him Frederick doesn’t fight back, instead arching into the body above him. Below him the carpet scratches at his back, sure to leave burns to be discovered later.Their movements are no longer sweet and lazy. They’re practically clawing at each other in an attempt to remove any last scraps of clothing, panting for breath between frenzied kisses. After sucking a livid bruise into Chilton’s hip Will sits up, reaching past him to grab lube from the nightstand. “Hands and knees,” he orders, blue eyes flashing.

Frederick throws him a look that lights a fire in Will’s veins. Getting onto his knees, he leans his chest over the bed and tangles his hands in the sheets. “Come on, Graham, I assume you know what to do with that thing…”

Will practically snarls, slicking his length quickly. He slides two lubed fingers into Frederick just to be sure, hooking them to tease his prostate. Smirking at the hiss he’s rewarded with, he withdraws the digits before lightly sliding his length along Frederick’s entrance.

“If you don’t fuck me I will personally murder you and feed you to Hannibal Lecter,” Frederick groans, pressing back against him.

“Low blow,” Will snorts. Still, he obeys, pressing in with a practiced ease.

Frederick keens, a high-pitched whine in the back of his throat. He’s always so sensitive, so quick to lose control. Will loves it. He rewards him with quick, hard snaps of his hips, hands roughly gripping Frederick’s thighs to pull him back with each thrust. He bites Frederick’s shoulder, teeth sinking into the flesh just below the curve of his neck. At the slight pain Frederick can’t help but shout, a pleasured cry as he tips his head to the side.

“God, I wish I could cover you in hickeys like we’re idiot teenagers,” Will grits out, soothing the crescent shaped indents with his tongue. He grabs for the lube again, letting it dribble messily over Frederick’s dick before wrapping long fingers around the length. He sets a pace completely at odds with the punishing movement of his hips, slow and reverent and completely loving.

“Christ Will, don’t you dare,” Frederick chokes, rocking back into the thrusts. “I can’t afford to look like a disheveled mess at work, the patients would have a field day.” His breath is becoming labored, his speech slurring as he gets closer to the edge. Will slides his free hand around, wrapping his fingers lightly around Frederick’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t apply any pressure at all, just firmly holds him by the neck.

Frederick absolutely loses it. With an anguished cry he comes, spilling over Will’s fingertips. His entire body tenses in waves, muscles tightening around Will’s length inside of him. It doesn’t take long for Will to tip over the edge himself, eyes screwing shut and lips parted in a silent cry.

They sit there for a moment, draped over the edge of the bed as they catch their breath. Frederick is the first to break the silence;

“I’m getting too old for this, Will.”

Will laughs, nuzzling a kiss into a sweaty shoulder. “Me too, Frederick. Me too.”


	3. Bard/Thranduil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard/Thranduil requested by the ever-wonderful [hannibalsketches](http://hannibalsketches.tumblr.com). Very very G-rated, very mushy. Bardlings!
> 
> Tilda teaches Thranduil the ways of Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me [at my tumblr](http://www.that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

Thranduil, son of Oropher, king of the Woodland Realm, sits at a rickety wooden table with a look of utter confusion on his face. It is not the state of the table that concerns him, nor the overall shabby dressings of his current setting. He has come quite used to this table and this home, feeling more at peace here than he ever was in Mirkwood.

No, the source of his confusion is the small girl sitting next to him, tearing little hearts out of paper and giving him stern instructions as he attempts to help her.

“No, look Thranduil, look. They’ve got to be quite smooth because they’re for SIgrid, and I want them to be as pretty as her,” Tilda says, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Da won’t let me use his big scissors so we’ve got to make them smooth, alright?”

Thranduil has to fight the smile creeping onto his lips, raising a stately eyebrow. “I’m tearing as best I can, my lady,” he said, voice smooth and calm. “I’m quite sure that if your da were to know I were helping you he’d let you use his big scissors.” How can something so small be so bossy?

Tilda chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh no, never ever. He says it’s because he loves me too much to let me be hurt, and he loves you just as much. Trust me, I know.”

Thranduil swallows, brought to a blush by a tiny child tearing out paper hearts. “I see. That is quite sensible then, I shall just have to tear smoother hearts.” He looks at the one currently held in his elegant hands. Hearts don’t even look like this, but who is he to point it out to his darling task master?

There is a flurry of movement, a tromping of boots over wooden slats, and then there is Bard leading Sigrid and Bain into their small dwelling. Their arms are laden with fruits and vegetables of various colors and kinds, bottles and pots balanced among them.

“What’s this then?” Bard laughs, eyes sparkling as he takes in the scene before him. “Tilda, I’m sure Thranduil doesn’t want to sit about all day tearing out hearts for you.”

“No, no, I actually do,” Thranduil says, smirking as he meets his lover’s eyes. “She’s been explaining to me the finer points of the festival tonight. It seems like quite the party, and all in celebration of love? Elves seem to be missing out.” He has to admit, that is the truth. A whole celebration of love, complete with games and music and dancing and a great dinner with the family. Tilda has been instructing him on how to tear out hearts and write little messages of love and fondness on them, to be given to loved ones or suiters throughout the night.

Bain walks over, grinning as he surveys the mess. “Which one’s mine then, Tilda?”

Tilda squawks with indignation, standing on her chair to gain a better angle to launch herself on her brother. “Don’t look Bain they aren’t ready. Oh Sigrid, tell him not to ruin it!”

Sigrid laughs, ushering them out of the room. “Come on you two, let’s wash our hair and start getting ready for the party tonight. We’ll finish up your hearts when we’re done Tilda.”

They leave, and Bard and Thranduil are left to put their purchases from the market away. “You really don’t mind, do you?” Bard asks, a hint of worry on his face. “She can be quite the slave driver when she’s excited about something. I told her you’re not her servant.”

“I don’t mind being her servant,” Thranduil says, quite surprised that he means it. It’s been a long time since he bonded with such small children. “We’ve had a good morning. We also tidied up her bedroom because it was atrocious; our bargain was that I would only help if her chores came first.”

Bard looks over, a look of wonder in his eyes. It’s a look that says, How do you exist, and how are you here with me? Instead of speaking the words he reaches over, silently squeezing Thranduil’s hand. They are, after all, men of action above all else.

“Oh! I have this for you, by the way.” With a sly smile Thranduil retrieves something from the pocket of his robe. “I had Tilda do the writing, she’s much better with letters than I,” he teases.

Bard takes the scrap of paper, unfolding it to reveal a small pink heart. Inside, in Tilda’s unmistakable sloppy scrawl, are the elvish words, “gi melin.” He can feel his heart racing in his chest, a familiar flush of heat flooding his face. “Her elvish is getting quite good.”

“Much better than yours, at least,” he says with a wide grin. Leaning over, Thranduil presses his lips to Bard’s cheek. “Happy Valentine’s day, meleth nîn.”


	4. Draco/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter! I love Harry Potter! Anyways this lovely Draco/Hermione drabble was requested by [saltylittlebitch](http://saltylittlebitch.tumblr.com). I've never written this before, it was fun! Another G-rated fluff fest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me at [my tumblr](that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

He could sit watching her read for hours.

Was that creepy?

Creepy or not, it was true. There was so much about Hermione that was engaging, from the way she licked her fingertips to turn the page to the way she scrunched her nose when she came across a particularly interesting paragraph or sentence. Every now and then a bit of curly hair would fall in her eyes, resulting in an annoyed breath and a casual swat to put it back in place. For Hermione Granger reading was a contact sport, not something to be done passively.

Draco sat up, walking from the bed to the desk. He sat on the corner, folding his arms. “So far so good?”

Hermione gave a distracted nod, turning the page and reading on.

Draco gave a small huff of breath, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, if you want to read all day then that’s fine. Just let me know when you’re ready for your Valentine’s gift.” He strolled out of the bedroom, smirking the entire way. Busying himself in the kitchen, he counted to ten before skinny arms wound around his waist.

“Valentine’s Day is awfully heteronormative and a bit sexist,” Hermione said, smiling into his shoulder.

“I guess it is if you make it that way,” he snorted, laughing. “But it doesn’t have to be, does it? Anyways, I didn’t go all out, I know we weren’t planning on celebrating. Just a little thing. A token.”

“That must have been very hard for you,” Hermione hummed, giving a tight squeeze.

“It was,” he sighed loftily. “All that money sitting in our Gringott’s account, and my partner won’t even let me spend it on her.” He flicked his wand at the dirty dishes in the sink, turning to face Hermione as they started to wash themselves. “Come on, it’s in the sitting room.”

“There are so many more important things that money could go towards,” she argued fondly as she followed him out of the kitchen. “The Society for the Prevention of Wizard on Muggle Violence has been looking for donations, they’re struggling to raise what they need-”

“If I make a donation will you shut up about it?” he grinned, sitting her on the sofa.

“For at least a week,” she grinned, tucking her mess of auburn curls behind her ear.

“Consider it done. The things I do for love,” he sighed, lifting a small wrapped parcel off of the table and pressing it into her hands. “Like I said, it’s not much, I hope you don’t think it’s utterly ridiculous…”

Hermione smiled softly at him before looking to the gift, unwrapping it slowly. “You really didn’t have to do anything, Draco.”

“I know, I wanted to,” he said, an uncharacteristic nervousness in his features as he sat beside her. “Open it…”

Slim fingers slid under the tape, pulling it loose before lifting the corners of the paper. She opened gifts like she did everything else; carefully, meticulously, no room for error. Once the wrapping had been opened she set it on the table, looking at the item in her hands.

It was old, well-worn in all the places a book should be worn. The corners and spine were cracked, cover image dim and faded. Tales of Beedle the Bard. She knew it well. With careful hands she opened the cover, her golden-brown eyes reading the inscription there.

To my darling Draco. There are many tales in the world, many stories to learn. Just remember one truth - mummy loves you.

Hermione bit her lip, blinking rapidly as her eyes welled with tears. “From when you were little.”

Draco nodded, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I loved when mother read it to me, it was always my favorite. I though…someday we’ll have a tiny little person who will love when their mum reads it to them.”

Hermione looked up, beaming despite the tears in her eyes. “It’s the nicest gift I’ve ever been given.”

“Better than jewelry?” he asked, laughing shyly.

“Who likes diamonds anyway?” she laughed, leaning in for a fond, sloppy kiss.


	5. Sasha/Aleksis (Pacific Rim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My dear friend [Krys](http://brishena.tumblr.com) requested this one! I'd never written them before, and had SO much fun. Note: Russian names are gender specific, hence her being referred to as Kaidanovskaya. Totally G rated like most of them. 
> 
> Sasha Kaidanovskaya is tough. That doesn't mean she isn't also a sap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me at [my tumblr](http://that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

Anyone who met Sasha Kaidanovskaya was quick to assume many things about her; that she was tough, that she was intimidating, that she cared greatly for her giant of a husband. Plenty of these assumptions were true. She was tough. She did easily intimidate new cadets of the Jaeger program. She absolutely loved Aleksis with all of her heart, hence the ease with which they could lock into a neural handshake. It was a feat many couple weren’t capable of, no matter the level of trust and respect felt between them. There had to be a special bond; almost a sharing of souls between two bodies. It was why they held the record for longest handshake, one no other team had even come close to.

The common mistake people made was in assuming that, under her tough exterior, she wasn’t a complete sap of a romantic.

Late at night, when it was just she and Aleksis in the quiet of their bunker, she spent her spare time watching old romance films and reading old books of Russian poetry Aleksis had saved for her during the first Kaiju attacks on Russia. She delighted in flowers, thought anyone other than her husband would not recognize “delight” on her face and instead take it as “vague surprise.” Still, she loved deeply, and loved all things associated with love.

One night in particular she sat on their bed, legs folded and knees bouncing as she watched the clock. Any sort of anxiety or eagerness looked so foreign on her, she spent most of her life completely collected. Still, she couldn’t stop wriggling about like a child waiting for Santa to arrive.

“Aleksis, is it midnight yet?” she asked, her husky voice filling the silence like incense.

Aleksis’ lips curved into a small smile, eyes not leaving the radio he was trying to repair. “Nyet, solnyshka. Not yet. Aren’t you watching the clock?”

Sasha laughed, biting her lip and going back to the book in her hands. “Da, but it is more fun to pester you.” 

It was barely midnight when she asked again. 

“And now?”

This time Aleksis laughed. “Still no. I promise, I will tell you the moment the day turns.”

Sasha nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to calm herself. Still, she had trouble finding her focus, reading the same line of the same paragraph again and again. Soon the silence and waiting was unbearable, and she couldn’t help the words bubbling out of her mouth.

“Are we close?”

Aleksis made a great show of lifting his arm, raising his eyebrows as he gazed at the watch on his massive wrist. It was a gift from Sasha herself, something that would weigh down the arm of any average sized man. On a man with tree-trunks for arms it was just the right size. Putting on a great show for the sake of his wife he gazed at the face, letting out a small “mmm” every few seconds.

“How unfortunate, it seems as if I have forgotten how to tell time…”

“Aleksis!”

He laughed, eyes sparkling as he looked over at her. “It is midnight, solnyshka.”

Sasha practically flew off of the bed, launching herself onto her husband. The motion rocked his chair back and sent them both sprawling on the ground, breaking two of the legs off and upending the table. She barely noticed, choosing instead to cover his smiling, hairy face in kisses. “Schastliviy Den' svetogo Valentiva, Aleksis!”

Aleksis laughed, a deep, happy, rumbling sound that she could feel in her belly. “Happy Valentine’s day, my little sun.”


	6. John Watson/Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen, what's a drabble anyway? Who's to say a drabble can't be 5,000 words? *gentle weeping* Anyways. This was requested by [this lovely friend on tumblr](http://areyougonnakeepthat.tumblr.com).
> 
> Some notes:  
> -I have seen season one of Sherlock, so please don't judge me too harshly.  
> -My arthritis is shit right now so typos abound.  
> -I am so friggin tired, so I wouldn't be shocked if the last bit sucks and I switch tenses and I accidentally call John "Linda" or something. I'll go back and proofread in the morning.
> 
> Rated NC-17 for sexxxx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me at [my tumblr](http://that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com) to request your own!

“So...let me repeat this, just to make sure I’m completely clear.”

They’re both in the sitting room but in very different states of relaxation. Sherlock looks as if there are a thousand other things he could currently be doing. He is draped over the couch looking supremely bored, as he often does. His feet are bare and hanging over the side of the couch, one arm draped down with his hand resting on the carpet. His shirt and trousers are on, though they’ve become quite wrinkled from the way he flops dramatically about. 

John looks like a clock that’s been overwound - tight and in a constant state of rapid motion. He’s sitting in his chair, leaning forward just slightly with his eyes locked on his flatmate. His fingers tap anxiously on either arm rest, which he’s gripping for dear life. He looks ready to run. Anxious feet press just so into the carpet, like he’s getting a good hold to dart away with. He’s not terrified, no - John Watson has seen plenty of terrifying things in his life, fear is a rare occurrence these days. Instead he’s wary. Intensely wary, like a bird inching closer to take some seed from an open palm. 

“If you insist,” Sherlock intones, lifting an eyebrow. “It often takes you a bit longer to catch up, do what you must.” He draws his fingers along the side of the couch, feeling every fiber, every seam of the upholstery. 

John presses his lips together, resisting the urge to throw a shoe at him. “You want to have sex. With me.”

“That is what I said, yes.”

“Could you, for the duration of this conversation, not be so...you?” John asks, eyebrows knit. “Not everyone is as glib as you are. Myself included.” He takes a breath, scrubbing his palms firmly over his face. “You want to lose your virginity to me.”

“Virginity is an outdated idea, but yes. I would like to have sex with you. It will be the first time I’ve done so.”

“But why?”

Sherlock sits up, focus honing in on John for the first time in the duration of the conversation. “It’s alarming to me that you find that question necessary to ask. I trust you implicitly. Of all the people I’ve come across, you’re the only one I deem necessary to my day to day operations.” For most, such an honest admission would come with a shy glance away, a flush of the cheeks; not Sherlock though, his gaze is unwavering. “Despite you being supremely annoyed by me often I know you’re fond of me as well. I can’t imagine who else I might turn to.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “It’s not that easy, Sherlock. Of course there’s nothing wrong with meaningless hookups, I’ve had plenty. But...we know each other too well to shag and then never mention it again.”  
At that Sherlock has the decency to look baffled. “Never mention it again? What on earth are you talking about?”

“It’s all well and good for you to get what you want out of the experiment,” John continues on, barely noticing his words. “But then what am I left with after? It all seems a bit...tricky, if you ask me.’

Sherlock makes a noise that’s the closest he’s ever been to sounding undignified. “Experiment! For God’s sake John, I find you attractive. Haven’t you caught on yet?”

John’s mouth shuts with an audible “click” of his teeth. He stares at his companion for a long moment, taking in this new piece of information. It’s undeniable that he’s got feelings for Sherlock, for some stupid, stupid reason. The man is stubborn, egotistical, unrelenting, rude...but completely brilliant, with a soft side that John is fairly sure he’s the only person to enjoy. To be completely honest he’d always had the suspicion that Sherlock was held back by him. He was a bright man (he couldn’t earn a PhD otherwise) but he certainly isn’t as clever as Sherlock. He’s more the heavy lifting. Or maybe the heart.

So it never for a moment occurred to him that Sherlock might return his interest.

It’s a while before he speaks again, Sherlock’s eyes never having left his face. “Well. Well then. I guess that’s settled. When do we start?”

They start the next day, but not in the traditional sense. There’s going to be no sloppy rushing into it, not if John Hamish Watson has anything to say about it. Instead he makes them both a tea, orders some Thai take-out, and makes himself cozy next to Sherlock on the couch.

“Right then,” he begins around a mouthful of tom kha gai, “We need to discuss some things. Like...expectations, comfort level, the lot.”

Sherlock looks at him warily from the corner of his eye. “We have to…talk about it? Can’t we just do it?”

“Absolutely not,” John says firmly. “This isn’t some random hookup, and I also don’t want this to be boring or unenjoyable for you. So we need to discuss what we don’t like, what we’re not comfortable with, etcetera.”

Sherlock takes a bite of his fancy duck, silent as he processes the information. “I don’t very well know what I like yet, though, do I?”

John shrugs. “Maybe not specific things. But maybe you hate having your feet touched, or maybe you absolutely, without a doubt don’t want anything inside your arse.”

“Charming.”

“The point remains. I just...want to make sure it’s good for you.” John looks away, a hearty blush coloring his cheeks.

Sherlock looks over, peering at him curiously. He’s always known that John has no lack of heart, that his empathetic streak is a mile long. Still, it always catches him by surprise to see how thoughtful he can be. It might be compared to his own attitude towards everything - sure, he cares, but not as deeply as John does. Half of the things he does are out of sheer curiosity, or for his own benefit. Selfish, sure, but honest? Absolutely.

When he speaks it is with a sincerity that matches John’s. “I’d prefer to have you on top,” he says, deep voice even and not the least bit shy. “I think I’ll feel less like I’m fumbling about in the dark if you’re in control of the situation. I know of course the mechanics of everything, but mechanics don’t account for everything.”

John nods, tearing a spring roll in half and putting a piece in the lid of Sherlock’s polystyrene carton. “I prefer to be on top anyway. Not that I’d ever be averse to switching things up, I’m just more comfortable there.”

“That’s settled then. Anything else?” Sherlock asks, lifting an eyebrow. John can’t help but glance over, taking him in. He’s sitting with his criss-cross in front of him, elbows on his knees as he holds the carton in one hand and his fork in the other. They’ve had a particularly long day; Mycroft wants Sherlock for some matter of national importance, and Sherlock wants to be a prat. They’ve spent the entire day running from place to place, hopping in cabs, jumping fences, all to avoid cameras and operatives and anyone who might bring them to the elder Holmes. John thought they were on a case, he hadn’t been delighted to find out the truth.

Now Sherlock sits in a pair of black trousers and a simple white button-up, hair it’s usual mess of curls. His left eye is blackened from a fight earlier in the week, one wrist still wrapped from the nasty sprain he’d received.

In the back of John’s mind a little thought tickles at his consciousness; he looks beautiful.

“We’re not done after one question, Sherlock,” John groans. “Alright so if you’re uncomfortable, or don’t enjoy anything, I want you to tell me. I don’t buy that nonsense of people being ashamed to ask for what they like in bed, we’ll both enjoy it more if we lend each other a hand.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Sherlock can’t help but add.

John sighs, gaze rolling toward the ceiling. This is going to be a long discussion. “Is there anything you’d quite like to try?”

For once Sherlock looks bashful. “I’d. Well. I think I’d like having my hair pulled,” he says, quickly clearing his throat and shoving a forkful of noodles past his lips so he can’t be expected to clarify.

John can’t help but grin. “Alright then. Anything else?”

Sherlock shakes his head so hard his curls bounce.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you a break,” John says fondly. “For what it’s worth, I hate having my feet touch. Dunno why, but I always have. Everything else is alright though, just...try what you want. See what you like and keep me updated during.”

“John?” 

“Mm?”

“I wouldn’t touch your feet if you begged.”

John disguises a laugh as an unamused scoff. “Glad we’re on the same page, Sherlock.”

*

They pick a day.

Both acknowledge that it’s not the most romantic way to plan a night together, but it seems important. Without a specific night in mind they’ll both walk around carrying an awkward tension on their shoulders, like two weights chained between them. Now? Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should he? Is he ready? Am I ready? Is it too cold? Should I chew some gum first? Do we have any pineapple? There are just too many variables. So they decide on Thursday, as they have no engagements Friday and Ms. Hudson will be out of town for a long weekend visiting some cousin in Brighton. 

The week leading up to their...appointment is fairly hectic. John has about a thousand new patients at the office and his evenings are spent following Sherlock around London as they track down a serial arsonist. By the time they get home each night they’re too tired to even consider sex anyway, so it’s a good thing they’ve got a schedule to follow.

Tuesday is a bit different. John falls in to bed around midnight, his mind far too caught up in the case to let him sleep. He’s tried everything; meditation, chamomile tea, counting the ticks of the clock on the wall...nothing works.

He’s just turned from one side to another when he hears soft footsteps coming down the hall. This in itself isn’t uncommon. Sherlock often thinks of the most inane things in the middle of the night, always running in immediately to wake John up and force him to listen to his thoughts in detail. It’s a great annoyance of his, as he dearly loves his sleep. If Sherlock can survive on two hours a night that’s just fine, but the rest of the world doesn’t function that way.

Tonight is different. John hears the footsteps stop just inside his doorway. He can hear weight shifting nervously from one foot to another. Sherlock is silent, to the point of John wondering if he’s holding his breath.

Finally the steps resume, and the bed behind him dips with the weight of another body. Sherlock slides under the covers, spooning up behind him and wrapping a tentative arm around his waist. He is silent, still. His body is one long line of tension, his fear of rejection drawing every muscle and tendon into flight mode. 

John simply runs a palm along his forearm before lacing their fingers together.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he yawns, smiling as the body behind him sinks in relief.

They sleep, neither waking until the sun is high in the morning sky.

*

Time is a funny thing.The hours between Tuesday night and Thursday night inch by like sap trickling down the bark of a tree, frozen one moment before just barely easing forward. John can barely focus at work, and both are useless when Lestrade has them come in to look at some evidence. Sherlock doesn’t even argue when he calls them both ridiculous and sends them on their way. They’re both hyper aware of what’s to come; a sort of giddiness has settled over the house, both men laughing at the most inane things and finding any reason to touch each other. They brush past on their way to make tea, they sit closer than usual on the couch.

Sherlock spends Wednesday night sleeping behind John, same position as the night before. This time there’s no fear, no self-consciousness as he walks into the room. He simply slides under the covers, curls up with John in a tangle of limbs, and quickly falls asleep. 

And then it is Thursday. 

John nearly calls out of work, but damnit he’s an adult. This isn’t his first time and he’s not going to act like some nervous virgin slipping upstairs with his girlfriend at their first house party. He goes to the clinic and manages to slog through the day, resisting the urge to check in on Sherlock every quarter-hour or so.

When the clock hits five he rips off his white coat and races out the door.

Sherlock, for his part, is playing violin when John walks in. He’s pleased to hear it’s a lovely song, not the cat-shrieking he scratches out when he’s in a sour mood. The song is sweet and cheerful, but the swift, staccato notes seem to reflect the anxiety of the man holding the bow. John leans against the door for a moment and watches. Sherlock hasn’t noticed him yet, so he has a moment to enjoy the long, lean lines of his body as his arm swings back and forth, back and forth. Long fingers dance over the strings, neck long and graceful as it leans into the chin rest.

“That’s a new one,” John says, more to catch his attention than anything.

Sherlock jumps, turns. They stand in silence for a long minute, each man wearing a vaguely anxious grin. John wants to say something smooth, to make some charming offer to treat Sherlock to dinner before they come back to the flat for wine before moving into the bedroom - he wants to do this right, romance and all. Before he has the chance Sherlock throws his violin on the sofa, strides across the room in four long steps, and pulls John in for a kiss.

This….this works too.

John is so surprised that he responds before his mind has fully registered what’s happening. When his brain catches up he’s pressed close to Sherlock, hands firm on his hips as he holds him close. The kiss is awkward and lovely, better than any scenario his mind has dreamed up in the past few days. Sherlock seems to be searching for just the right angle, just the right place to put his hands as their mouths explore and test and taste all sorts of new, lovely things. He’s so...innocent about all of this. His usual sarcasm and pretension are nowhere to be found as he sucks just so at John’s lower lip, a soft moan escaping his throat.

Sherlock pulls back, looking stunned. “Oh. Welcome home, I suppose.”

And then they’re kissing again. This time it’s in motion, two colliding bodies trying to navigate the obstacle course of their flat as they kiss their way to the bedroom. It seems vaguely dangerous in a “who gives a fuck” sort of way, and John is fairly sure that he stubs his toe but he can’t be arsed to care. All he knows is that he’s never seen Sherlock this desperate before. He’s like a starving man at a feast, ravenous and overjoyed. 

They finally make it to the bedroom, crashing onto the mattress and immediately going at each other’s clothing. “Lube?” John asks breathlessly, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and pushing it over his shoulders. His breath catches in his throat at the sight before him; lean muscle, pale skin, long lines. How exactly did this happen again? Not that he cares, really, but why on earth is he so lucky all of a sudden? He leans in, dragging his lips along a sloping shoulder.

“Under the pillow,” Sherlock groans, dropping his head to the side to give John better access. His hands won’t stop moving, they’re desperate to get John as naked as possible and touch every inch of him. He tugs and tugs until John finally helps to pull his jumper off, chucking it in the vague direction of the dirty laundry. “Rubbers, as well.”

“Smart lad,” John says eagerly, leaning in to kiss him by way of a reward. They spend a bit of time like that, sprawled out on the bed snogging like a couple of teenagers as they relax more and more into each other’s touches. John’s fairly shocked at how easy this all feels; didn’t he spend the last week out of his mind with nerves? Now it all seems so natural, like they’ve never NOT been more than two blokes who share a flat and solve the odd murder together.

All of a sudden there are long fingers gripping his arms, flipping them over. He finds himself sprawled out on top of Sherlock, his weight pinning him to the mattress.

“Ah. Like this?” he asked, grinning.

“Like this,” Sherlock agrees eagerly, looking fairly dazed. 

Soon he can feel the beautiful length of Sherlock’s prick pressed against him through his pants. That’s when it hits him, that this is happening. He’s not dreaming, and this isn’t some feverish hallucination brought on by the odd psychotropic drug Sherlock likes to slip into his tea for “experiments.” Sitting up, he hooks his fingers under the elastic of Sherlock’s underwear before looking up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” comes the breathy reply, accompanied by slim hips lifting slightly off the bed.

“Lovely” seems like an odd word to use when describing a man’s dick, but there really isn’t any way around it. Sherlock’s length is breathtaking, long and slim and curving up just slightly. He’s flushed pink, a theme carried throughout his body. He’s so pale, so sensitive; it’s so easy for him to flush, and John is thankful for it.

“Blimey, you’re gorgeous,” John breathes, feeling a bit dazed. He shucks off his own pants before lining their bodies back up, pulling Sherlock on for another deep kiss.

It’s smoother this time, they’ve found how they fit together. When Sherlock’s tongue darts out John parts his lips, allowing him a bit of exploration before his own tongue joins in for a bit of a tussle. Hands still move and explore, blindly memorizing curves and dips and bumps, seeking out places that bring about sighs and moans and other lovely noises. 

John is the first to pull away, kissing a searing trail down Sherlock’s jaw. “How is this? Is it good so far?”

“It’s lovely,” Sherlock sighs, settling into the pillows as John goes exploring. “A-ah, yes, especially there…”

John grins, once again nipping his teeth at a sharp collarbone. He closes his lips over the protrusion, sucking firm enough to mean business, but not so hard as to leave a mark. His hands, so skilled and practiced, draw lightly up between those creamy thighs. 

With a sigh Sherlock parts his legs. “Your hands…”

“Mhm? What would you like me to do with them?” John breathes against his shoulder, licking at a freckle. “Would you like me to touch your cock?” He draws light fingers along Sherlock’s length, smirking at the shiver it elicits. “Or would you like something else?”

Sherlock struggles, still battling mentally with the idea of having to give instructions. “I want...to feel them inside,” he manages, blue eyes piercing as they meet John’s. He figures he must have said something right, as John moans and surges up for another kiss. 

“Anything, anything you want,” John says desperately, sucking and biting at his lips. “God, you’re exquisite Sherlock, absolutely perfect. I’ll give you anything.”

He sits up, reaching near Sherlock’s hip to grab the lube. “Flip over,” he instructs breathlessly. “It’ll be easier with a pillow under your hips.” He helps him get settled, stroking a hand down the back of a trembling thigh before parting his legs just slightly. “We’re going to go slow, whether you like it or not,” he says, managing a firm tone. He warms some slick between his palms, sliding them slowly along Sherlock’s lower back and thighs to massage the taut muscles under ivory skin. “If you end up not liking it just tell me. We’ll try something else.”

Sherlock hides his face in the pillow, groaning as John massages the tension from his body. “On with it, Watson.”

John chuckles, giving his arse a light pinch. “What did I just say? No rushing.” Still, he bites his lip as he gently squeezes the curve of his ass with large, loving hands, parting him slightly. “This’ll be a bit cold,” he teases, drizzling a bit of lube over Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock jerks, hissing, and he’s quite sure he’ll be punished later. Somehow.

“Sh, I know, I’m wicked,” John soothes. He sinks his teeth into his lip, worrying it slightly as he draws his finger through the mess of lube. Slow strokes, again and again, until Sherlock stops tensing at the touch. “There we are, good lad,” he coos. He didn’t expect Sherlock to enjoy the praise, yet he damn near purrs and arches slightly. 

Alright, good sign. 

Leaning in to press his lips to the small of Sherlock’s back, John rubs his thumb gently over the sensitive area just behind his sac. “You’ve no idea how good you look like this,” he says, voice barely louder than a rasping whisper. “Knowing how eager you are? It’s going right to my head.” Cautiously, carefully, he dips his middle finger in to the first knuckle. Not enough to cause any stretch or pressure, but enough that Sherlock can begin to get used to the sensation. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, the hair at the nape of his neck beginning to stick to his neck. “More John…”

“I’ll get there,” John hums, swallowing hard. He works the tip of his finger in and out a few times before going just a bit deeper. He makes a rhythm of it. In, out. In, out. In, out. In a bit deeper. He knows it’s slow, knows it must feel torturous to Sherlock, who just wants a cock in his arse and a hand on his dick. He refuses to rush a moment of this. For once they’re doing it his way. 

After a bit he has a full finger in, slowly working in and out. “How’s that?” he checks again, looking up for any signs of stress.

“A bit odd, but I expected that,” Sherlock pants, squirming back on the finger. “I...quite like that it’s your finger inside of me though. And I’m ready for a-another.”

John nods, resuming his pattern but this time with his ring finger added into the equation. “Darling boy,” he sighs. “So good for me, so eager to open up and let me in.” Sherlock is making that pleased sound again, that sort of purr, so John continues. “Can’t wait until it’s my cock, can’t you? You’re dying to feel me filling you up, to feel every inch of me...is that right love?”

“Yessss,” Sherlock hisses, starting to buck his hips a bit into each thrust of John’s hand. His erection had softened a bit at the onset, but once again it’s thick and hard and aching to be touched. “John, want you so badly, please, give it to me…”

“Not yet,” John soothes. “Nearly there, but I won’t hurt you.” So he continues on, opening Sherlock up with his fingers, lavishing him with praise. After a while of gentle words and firm touches he’s taking three fingers, practically mewling and arching his hips up into each thrust. 

“Now?” he begs, face flushed as he looks over his shoulder.

“Alright, now,” John agrees, chest heaving. He’s worried he’s starting to lose a bit of his famous control, too drawn in by frost-blue eyes and full lips begging for his prick. Grabbing a rubber, he tears the packet open and rolls it down his length. “Up on your knees, darling,” he instructs, slicking up with plenty of lube.

Sherlock does as asked, thin arms trembling. “This won’t last,” he warns, curls falling in his eyes.

“Put your chest down,” John murmurs, stroking his back. “There you go. Let your legs to all the work. Perfect, good boy.”

He kneels behind, letting the front of his thighs press to the back of Sherlock’s. Taking his erection in hand he presses it to the cleft of Sherlock’s ass, rubbing teasingly over his entrance. “Mm, maybe I should open you up a bit more, make sure you’re really ready…”

Sherlock cries out, eyes shut tight and eyebrows knit. “God damnit Watson get on with it!”

He laughs, finally taking pity on his lover. One hand curled around a hip, the other guides his length in with a loving slowness. “There you go, beautiful, so lovely, take it all…” Every few centimeters he’ll pull out a bit before pressing a bit more in. Sherlock is practically beside himself, making these sweet little choking sounds that John is certain will be the death of him.

Finally, their hips press together.

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John chokes, slumping forward slightly. “You’re so tight, you’re just...gripping me, and it feels so good, I can’t…”

“John move,” he snaps, pressing back. John quickly sets up a rhythm, slow at first, firm but steady thrusts to get Sherlock used to the feel of it. Sherlock is like velvet around him. He’s so hot and tight, body pulling him in and begging for more. How did he ever get on before this?

“Oh it’s good, it’s very good,” Sherlock gasps, rocking his hips into the thrusts. With each downward motion of his hips he thrusts into the pillow, rubbing his leaking cock against the soft cotton. They’ll definitely need to do laundry in the morning. He can feel John behind him, strong and solid, and he wants to cling to him as he drives his cock in again and again, fucking into Sherlock until he’s screaming and clawing at his back. He wants to push him onto the bed, sinking onto his length and riding him until they’re both hoarse. He wants to let John fuck him on the grounds of Buckingham Palace, to let all of England know just who they both belong to. He has so many plans, so many delicious images running through his brain. So many things he wants to try.

But for now? This is perfect.

John picks up his speed, hips beginning to slap against Sherlock’s with each thrust back in. Soon there is a blessed, merciful hand wrapped around Sherlock’s dick, slick and wonderful as it matches the beat of their hips. He shouts out, head falling forward.

“John, John I’m not going to-”

John accounted for this, and to be honest he’s quite pleased with himself. In a fluid movement he wraps an arm around Sherlock’s hips, sitting back and pulling the taller man with him. “Take what you need,” he growls, biting into his shoulder.

Sherlock sobs - sobs - and begins rocking his hips in earnest. He’s grinding down like he’s almost there, like he just needs that little bit more to take him to where he needs to be. John’s hand speeds up as well, gently pulsing the base of his cock before moving up to stroke a thumb under the head. He starts to pump his hand firmly, lighter at the base and tighter at the tip, moving with the deep movements of Sherlock’s hips.

“Come on, darling,” John rasps, voice gravel and honey. “Let me hear how beautiful you sound when you scream my name.”

John’s words are like a sucker punch, ripping Sherlock’s orgasm from him. HIs thighs go tense, back arching and head falling back to John’s shoulder. His eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling, shocked and just a bit terrified of how good it all feels. 

“John...John!”

John lets him spill into his hand, touches immediately becoming gentle and soothing as Sherlock comes down from his climax. He helps him off, lays him down, strokes his hair back with his clean hand. “Perfect...brilliant...beautiful…”

Sherlock, however, has no time for pleasantries or his own post-coital haze. His hand moves to John’s length, wrapping around the shaft and pumping firmly from tip to base and back up. John gives an almost pained sound, curling slightly in on himself as he thrusts into Sherlock’s touch.

“Oh yeah, almost there,” he chokes, toes curling behind him. True to his word, it’s only a few more tugs from a soft hand before he’s coming as well, Sherlock’s name tumbling from his lips.

Suddenly the room his silent, save for the sound of their gasping breaths. They are boneless, weak and sated.

“Well,” Sherlock says finally. “I dare say we should cancel any plans we had for the weekend, just to be on the safe side.”

John laughs, rolling over to kiss him.


End file.
